Something Like Love
by katmd
Summary: Pieces of a relationship sewn together; short one-shot.


_Disclaimer: The characters, settings, etc. of the Harry Potter series are not mine. I just play with them._

**Something Like Love**

His hand was clammy as it wrapped itself around her wrist in a vice-like grip, stilling her movements, and freezing her arm somewhere in the air above his head.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Helping you," she replied. "You have a fever. I flooed Poppy, and she suggested I keep you cool by-"

"Shut _up_," he hissed again, his eyes slipping shut as his face screwed up into a grimace. "My head is killing me and your prattling isn't making it any better."

"I'm sorry, Professor. I just want to help you."

"Then leave me be," he growled.

"Fine," she replied, relaxing the hand he held immobile in mid-air and dropping the cool, damp cloth onto his face. Wrenching her arm away from him, she left his bedside.

----

"You're to cut those ingredients diagonally, Longbottom!" he bellowed, striding across the classroom toward the boy who had visibly cowered as soon as he'd first opened his mouth.

"Miss Granger!" he shouted, turning his attention on the frizzy-haired child standing beside the boy. "Why on Earth didn't you stop Longbottom from cutting these roots horizontally?"

She looked up at him with a haughty expression on her face. "I hadn't noticed, Professor."

He gritted his teeth. The damned know-it-all. She simply _couldn't_ stop helping Longbottom when he was making minor mistakes, but when it came down to something that might cause an accident that could kill them all, she couldn't be bothered.

"Detention, Miss Granger," he snarled, "for failing to pay attention in class. You will serve it with Mr. Filch."

"Yes, sir," said the irritating little girl, picking up her knife and continuing to slice her roots into perfectly diagonal slivers.

----

Her eyes glittered oddly under the poor lighting of the pub. He didn't know why he'd noticed that. He wished he hadn't. Too much alcohol, he supposed.

"I wish I didn't let him bother me," she whispered after awhile.

He grunted.

"I love him," she said softly, "but not in the way he wants me to. I never will."

He realized why exactly, when he saw the tear slip down her cheek, her eyes had glittered before.

----

He wasn't so old, but looking down at his former schoolmates' and his friends' children made him feel ancient. Especially looking that boy with the same memorable gait and those damnable green eyes.

Young Draco wasn't so difficult to look at; he'd seen him plenty often before the boy had come to school.

It was slightly disconcerting to see Crabbe and Goyle's boys sitting before him looking exactly like their fathers in every possible way, including the ridiculously stupid expressions that seemed to be permanently etched onto their faces.

The penultimate Weasley was like the others, but most, he thought, like the eldest, Bill.

There was that irritating Granger child. Her hair was bigger than the rest of her and that incessant hand-waving might kill him.

And then there was Longbottom. He was a cowed looking boy. He was nothing like his father.

----

Headmistress McGonagall smiled as an owl swooped over the breakfast table and dropped a letter onto his plate and onto hers.

"You've been corresponding with Hermione Granger, too?" she asked, smiling brightly at him.

"Yes," he said.

"Does she like teaching at Beauxbatons?" Flitwick asked suddenly from his side.

"Yes," he said.

"I didn't know the two of you were friends, Severus," Sprout chimed in from a few seats down.

His face grew hot. "We're not."

The headmistress smiled.

----

He imagined there were other things he should be doing the night before the day he was probably going to die instead of writing his will, but he couldn't think of any.

He leaned back in his chair, surveying the library of 12 Grimmauld Place. He supposed this was the last time he'd ever do this. Never again would he sit in this chair and look around at the shelves of books in the Black home.

He heard the door creak open and shut again quickly behind the entrant. Snape looked over at the door and saw that it was Granger who had entered. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so curt with the girl; she'd only been trying to help him while he was ill.

She hadn't seen him, it seemed, for she walked directly to one of the book shelves. He watched as she reached out, tracing her fingers along the spines and sighing deeply.

"Something wrong, Miss Granger?" he asked before he could stop himself.

She started and whirled around to look at him. "Oh," she said when her eyes landed on him, "oh, it's just you."

He smirked. "Yes. Just me."

"Nothing's the matter, really," she said, returning to his question as she moved slightly so she could eye the books again. "I was just thinking."

"No!" he exclaimed.

He was surprised to see her smile a little as she rolled her eyes. "I was thinking about tomorrow and what might happen…er, afterwards."

He raised an eyebrow. "For example…?"

"For example," she said, looking back to him, "dying. I may die tomorrow."

"Yes, all of us may die tomorrow, Miss Granger," he replied.

"I don't really want to," she said softly, looking down at her shoes. "There's so much I haven't done."

"Like read all of these books?" Snape prodded.

"Yes," she said, glancing up at him with a bashful smile. "Among other things."

"Like?" he asked.

"Love," she responded hesitantly. "I've never been in love."

"Oh," he said. He hadn't expected that. Traveling around the world or finding a cure for lycanthropy, perhaps, but he hadn't thought she'd say something so common as falling in love.

"What's it like?" she asked suddenly, looking him directly in the eye.

He frowned. "Battle?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "Love."

His frown deepened. "I…I don't know, Miss Granger."

"What?" She looked astounded. "Surely you must have…of course…."

He sighed and looked away from her face. "No, Miss Granger. I never have."

----

"Extra _credit_?" His eyebrows shot upwards.

"You don't have to mark it," she insisted. "I have no intention of making you do any extra work, Professor. I'd just like you to assign something to give my readings more direction. There's so much information to cover and without any-"

"Stop," he interrupted, holding up his hand to cease her chatter. "Don't you have enough to do with NEWT preparation, Miss Granger? And your Head Girl duties? As well as…ah, _other_ things?"

The young woman's cheeks flushed a light shade of red as she looked down at his desk. "I was hoping you could give me something to take my mind off of all of that, Professor."

He glowered at her. "The history of beautification potions."

She smiled.

----

Though he liked it when she sighed his name, he preferred to hear her gasp it. He liked the way she'd throw her head back, the way her mouth would fall open as his name, breathy and surprised-sounding, flew out, the way her small hand curled into a fist as she clenched the white sheets, and the way the candlelight glinted off of the golden band she wore on the fourth finger of her left hand.

But best of all, most of all, he liked her.

----

Hagrid was dead. Death Eaters in the Hog's Head. He wasn't the only person dead, but he was the only staff member.

Dumbledore had called him down to Hagrid's hut where the old man sat with Professor McGonagall, Fang, and three grieving children.

Potter's face was hard as he did his best to look unaffected, but any idiot could tell that the boy was terribly upset. The Weasley boy looked glum. Only Granger wept openly, and Severus admired her for that. It was something he had never been capable of doing, and something that he probably never would be able to do.

----

"But Professor Snape," the little boy whined, "do I have to serve detention? I promise I'll never do it again. I didn't mean to do it in the first place, you know. It really was an accident. How was I to know that he was allergic to flobberworm intestines? He didn't tell me!"

Professor Snape smirked; he thought it was most unbecoming. Her face was far too sweet looking to wear such an expression.

"Detention," said the small woman, "you may serve it with Professor Snape."

"No!" the boy exclaimed. "Please Professor Snape! Not Professor Snape! I hate Professor Snape!"

He emerged from the shadowed alcove from which he'd been watching just as his wife opened her mouth to say something to the boy. "The feeling is mutual, Fillingham," he snapped. "Eight o'clock. Don't be a second late."

The boy nodded and ran away. Professor Snape turned to look at Professor Snape; her expression was one of supreme irritation.

"I could have handled that _myself_, you know," she said.

He smiled. "Of course, my dear."

----

She stepped off a train as a breeze whispered by, fluttering the curls that had escaped from their confinement so that they danced against her neck. He watched as she shifted her bag from one hand to the next as her eyes searched the platform.

He took advantage of the moment to inspect her. Her time in France had done her well; she practically seemed to glow.

His observations ended as she finally caught sight of him, and a smile of pleasure spread across her face.

Instantly, a terribly odd sensation flooded his chest as he felt his mouth curving into a smile, as well. The warm yet aching feeling intensified as a light blush stole across her cheeks, and it almost became too much to bear when she opened her mouth and said, "Good afternoon, Professor Snape."

His heart beating wildly, he took the hand she offered and shook it quickly. "Good afternoon, Professor Granger."

He looked into her face and saw in her eyes a glowing reflection of the same feeling that had manifested in his chest. It was unnameable; it was almost pleasurably painful; and as she grinned up at him, he realized it was something like love.

_-------_

_Notes: Inspired by Bob Schneider's '_Love is Everywhere_.' Thanks for reading._


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